


Rhythm And Moves

by SnitchesAndTalkers



Category: Bandom, Ed Sheeran (Musician), Fall Out Boy
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, M/M, One Night Stands, PWP, Photographs, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 04:51:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11867115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers/pseuds/SnitchesAndTalkers
Summary: “The thing about sex—and this is important, I fucking swear it is—anyway, the thing about sex is it’s a fuckingwhole bunchlike performing a show.”Patrick decides he likes how ice-blue eyes narrow at him in a way that saysfuck you for making me want to ask.“Fuck you for making me want to ask,” the rhythm and timbre of an English accent is doing wonders for hardening Patrick's cock. “But what the actualfuckare you talking about?”ORHey, I like redheads so thought I'd write about two of my favourites fucking!





	Rhythm And Moves

**Author's Note:**

> Look, it was my birthday yesterday and once you're out of your teens birthdays are _depressing as shit_. I wrote this to cheer myself up and you wouldn't want to think of me as sad around my birthday would you?

“The thing about sex—and this is important, I fucking swear it is—anyway, the thing about sex is it’s a fucking _whole bunch_ like performing a show.”

 

Patrick decides he likes how ice-blue eyes narrow at him in a way that says _fuck you for making me want to ask._

 

“Fuck you for making me want to ask,” the rhythm and timbre of an English accent is doing wonders for hardening Patrick's cock. “But what the actual _fuck_ are you talking about?”

 

“Well, think about it,” Patrick smirks, but just a little, just the smallest twitch at the furthest corners of his lips.

 

Those piercing blue eyes narrow further, slits of clear summer sky framed by auburn lashes. Patrick licks his lips, a flash of his tongue against them, slides his hands over hips a little narrower than his own. _Hot, soft skin under his palms, flex the thumbs, reach them forward in tiny circles, feel the kiss of rough hair under his navel. Lean forward, lips and hips meet, one chaste and gentle the other rough and dirty. Swallow that moan baby, don't let anyone else hear._

 

“Okay,” there's a warm hand in the centre of his chest. The heat matches his heart and jolts electric shocks through his veins. “Okay you win. I've thought. Explain it to me.”

 

“Well, the thing is Edward—hey, can I call you Edward? Teddy? Okay fine, Ed—the thing is Ed, you gotta start with the warm up act, you know?” He rolls his hips, two dicks half hard behind two zippers. He has to stretch up but that's okay, he's used to that by now. “You don't get the right support, it all goes to shit, right?”

 

“So you're going to get Pete to tongue my balls first?” Drag off a thin cotton t-shirt and then there's _ink_ , so much fucking glorious _ink_ and marble pale skin, surprisingly muscular, he must work out. Trace each picture, just a fingertip, not too much, even the pad is rough—calloused from hours pressed to guitar strings—and drag across a tight, pink nipple. It pulls out a groan that sounds like a low harmony to Patrick’s breathing. They’re both tenors—Ed low, Patrick high—the vocals could get… _interesting._

 

His mouth follows his fingertip, lips tracing, tongue tasting, teeth find that nipple and bite. _Hush honey, there’s so much more to come, just bide your time, keep those noises just for me._

 

“Pete,” mouth against the shell of an ear, the tickle of soft hair against softer lips, a hand curled around the back of a damp neck. “Isn’t getting anywhere near you. This-” _pause to reach for a denim covered cock, squeeze, eyes closed for that melodious moan, add your own, now doesn’t that sound the fucking prettiest?_ “-is all mine.”

 

“I swear to fucking god, Patrick-”

 

“The other _super_ important thing about a _really great_ show,” Patrick opines, there’s a dirty groan, a thumb across the seam of his lips that it would be a shame not to suck. The groan changes, pitches up into a falsetto with the flicker of a tongue against skin that tastes of copper wire and salt. _You know you look good sucking, look good on your knees, give him a show._

 

“What…” His voice is already fucked out, his hair already a dozen shades darker with sweat, sticking slick and messy to his forehead, neck and cheeks. Pupils are blown black and pale skin has flushed a delicious pink, blood-bright. _Flick the tongue over the tip of his thumb, swirl it around then suck, that’s a pretty noise baby, let’s take it higher_. “What’s the other important thing?”

 

_Slide a knee between his thighs—thicker, unlike his hips—press up, release the thumb, lick the lips, eyes are all on you and-_

 

“Anticipation,” a breath of a word, Patrick punctuates it with a slick slide of his tongue up and over a collarbone, pauses to bite on the tendon that flexes between shoulder and neck. _That’s a beautiful little gasp but I think we can do better_. “It’s all about the energy. Which brings us back to-”

 

“-the warm up?” A red eyebrow quirks, red lips do the same.

 

“The warm up,” Patrick nods and flicks open the button of Ed’s jeans with practised ease. _Thumbs first, just dip into the waistband, slow drag from the valley of his spine until they meet at his zipper. Hear how he hisses at the pull over his hipbones, watch his eyes close, his head roll back, he’s gonna look so fucking pretty on his back._

 

He drags down the zipper, notch by notch, lets them click in a room soundtracked only by breathing.

 

“Make a carpet and curtains joke and I swear to god I’ll fucking deck you, mate.” Delivered with a grin, eyes alight with filth and promises, with everything he muttered on the cab ride. “Oh shitting fuck…”

 

The curse, snarled as his cock is enveloped in Patrick’s hot, damp hand, is punctuated with a stamp of his heel against the floor. _Fucking acoustic musicians… Ready to hit a high note, baby?_

 

He drops to his knees dragging down denim over thighs as pale as cream, presses a palm to hard muscle and velvet soft skin. There’s next to no contrast between their skin tones. But there’s contrast between his hand and Ed’s prick, dark and hard and leaking against his palm, thick with blood and lust. He’s uncut and that’s kind of a novelty, Patrick leans in, runs his lips over skin that feels like crushed velvet and tastes a bitter slick against the tip of his tongue.

 

“So you’ve got to get the audience worked up, right?” He gently eases back Ed’s foreskin, reveals the head flushed pink and shining, a pearlescent slick. _A whine, somewhere close to the top of his range but nowhere close to yours, settle sweetie, just settle._ “They’re the most important aspect, right?”

 

“Yeah mate, audience,” Ed’s staring at the ceiling, palms pressed flat to the wall behind him, lips moving like he's reciting a fucking litany. “Got it.”

 

“After all,” Patrick murmurs, leaning in close with a conspiratorial smile, voice dropping to a stage whisper. _He smells of musk and fresh sweat, of chemical body spray and heated skin, warm cotton and sex_. “If all eyes aren't on you,” he drags his tongue along the slit at the head, Ed yelps a curse and tangles strong fingers in messy strawberry blond hair. His hat hits the ground at his knee with a soft _thump_. “-you're not doing it right.”

 

“Has anyone…” Ed trails off to hiss something unintelligible as Patrick rubs his thumb lightly over his perineum. _He's hanging by a thread, one tug—half a tug—he’ll crash down. Hold steady baby, I've got you_. “Fucking hell… Have you been told you're a bit of a fucking tease?”

 

“It might've come up in conversation,” Patrick smiles with full lips and straight teeth, trails his thumb further back between cheeks damp with sweat, feathering softly against the tight, tender pucker he finds there. _Stroke him slow, 4/4 time, there's give to his cock that's unusual—so different to a cut dick—he’s purring, eyes closed, mouth soft like butter._ “I prefer to call it showmanship.”

 

“Fucking hell,” he repeats uselessly, hands and fingers gentle as they sift through the hair at the nape of Patrick's neck. It's a little longer than it has been in a long while, it curls up against his collar as he tilts his head up to smile through his lashes like he's coy.

 

Patrick leans in, mouths soft and light at Ed’s thigh, hand still a slow torture against his cock, his thumb rotating over the head as his fingers and palm flex and reach against the shaft. _There's something you want, fire in your belly that matches your hair. Fucking tell me. Fucking say it. We can't harmonise if you won't pick up your lines…_

 

“Is there… Something wrong, Ted?” _Sink a bite there—right there—where his thigh meets his groin, hear him moan as his head rolls and his knees sag, layer it with a hum of fucking hallelujah._ Patrick laves his tongue against the sting of the bite as he reaches between his legs, grasps the solid ache of his cock through his jeans and squeezes hard. “Something you want?”

 

“Stop being a twat,” Ed growls, voice suddenly a low bass line between them, Patrick could score it out, sit with his guitar and have a song in a half hour. “Just… Get on with it.”

 

“Get on with _what?” Duck your head but not your eyes, soft blink as you tongue at his balls, there’s a rough scratch of copper hair over satin skin and a hitching breath that dances like a fucking melody_. He presses his lips to the heated column of Ed’s cock, low, where his little finger curls around the base and hums a low note, feels Ed shudder against him. “You okay?”

 

“Seriously,” Ed mutters, eyes closed lightly. “You’re a fucking dickhead.”

 

He eases back Ed’s foreskin once against, runs his lips soft and wet along the full length of his cock and, with masterful precision, seals his mouth over the head. _Grab his hips, push him back to the wall and hold him there, let him feel the drywall cold and hard against his back and you heat and soft lips at his front, let him wriggle and squirm for more. A couple gentle licks—fuck he tastes so good—press those thumbs against hipbones sharp as hard words, yeah that oughta do it, now you’re singing for me baby._

 

He’s on his feet, eyes as blue as the Atlantic and just as wide staring down at him, spit-slick lips like a slash of blood across his pale face framed by copper stubble, a flash of teeth and soft, pink tongue, “And that’s how we build-”

 

“-anticipation?” Ed’s a mess, voice a rough whisper, hand groping for his cock. Patrick snatches at his wrist and pushes it back to the wall.

 

“So—and I know you’re wondering—what comes after the warm up, right?” Patrick frames a sweat damp face with his hands, feels the bite of a scruffy beard under his palms. There’s beer and gum on his breath and lust-fire in his eyes that says he wants control, doesn’t like Patrick pushing him back and back and back and any moment, just a few clever steps and he’ll shove back. “I can tell you, Edward. After the warm up—lights down, fucking electricity in your spine—comes that second and you fucking know it, don’t you? Yeah, that second when you stand at the side of the stage and you know you either gotta sing or come?”

 

He begins to tap a beat with his foot, basic— _one two three four_ —drags the pad of his thumb up the underside of Ed’s cock on each fourth beat.

 

“They’re out there,” he breathes against a neck that’s damp with sweat and hot with need, “They’re out there and they’re fucking screaming for you. It’s like foreplay—right?—get them _needing_ , get them _wanting_ , it’s like knowing someone’s fucking _hard_ for you, on their knees, ass in the air just-”

 

Ed barrels into him, a hard push off from the wall and he’s staggering backwards as he’s hit by what feels like a wall constructed of blazing hair, muscle and lust. There are arms under his and he’s shoved, half carried half stumbling, until he hits the hotel bed, hits the mattress, hits a high, clear note as a hard cock shoves against his. His wrists are wrapped in strong, calloused hands and yanked over his head, pinned to the mattress and a voice, melodious and rich in his ear, “So, what’re you gonna do, mate? Sing or come?”

 

 _Wrap your legs around his waist, he’s still exposed, you’ve got that on your side. Press up, that’s it, a slow roll against him, let him feel the scrape of the denim, let him feel your dick against his. That’s it honey, keep moaning for me, just for me,_ “Can’t we do both?”

 

“You’re weird as fuck,” Ed is clawing at Patrick’s jeans, abandons them with a low growl and snatches at his shirt, one hard yank and buttons scatter like they’re running scared, a pale chest exposed to a mouth that’s red and wet and wanting. Each suck sparks a point of heat that loops, drives in, finds a vein and chases his bloodstream straight to his cock, each bite crawls into his chest and makes his lungs constrict. “But here’s the thing. I can put on a show too—fucking sell out arenas just like you, mate—and you work them up too much and you know what you get? A fucking riot. Sometimes-” his hand is inside Patrick’s jeans, elegant fingers that circle his cock with practised ease and start to tug, “-you’ve just got to give them the big hit. The thing they paid forty fucking quid for a ticket to hear, yeah?”

 

“You’re losing the analogy a little my fr-” Patrick’s voice cracks, gives out, shatters into nothing more than a glorious, soaring note of need as a hot, wet mouth sinks over his dick. His knees jerk up, heels coming to rest somewhere against Ed’s back, thighs pressed to the sides of his head. His hips twitch like electric shocks, hands twisted into titian hair as he fucks up into the eager mouth wrapped around him. Ed’s good, he’s fucking _really_ good, lips that draw and suck against heated, sensitive flesh and a tongue that curls up and under the head of his cock on each rise upwards. Patrick whimpers, soft and needing, feels the deep, delicious curl of desire in his groin as his guts cramp with lust. _He’s winning, fuck he’s winning, deep breath, you need to get this back under control._

 

“There’s too many… Fucking…” Ed yanks with undisguised irritation at Patrick’s belt loop, at his shirt, kicks at his own jeans for a moment before rolling onto his back. “We need to…. I want to…”

 

“The setlist,” Patrick smirks, propped on his elbows with his confidence restored. “You forgot about the setlist, right? Now, you know you can wing it—you know your own shit, right?—but what if you forget the big one? The B-side they all love?”

 

“You’re labouring your point now,” Ed’s jeans are off, discarded and forgotten and he’s dragging at Patrick’s.

 

“It’s what I do best,” Patrick pushes him away for just a second, just long enough to drag his phone from his hip pocket and slide it—face down—onto the nightstand. He’s outwardly calm as he slips off his jeans, collected as he shrugs out of his destroyed shirt and confident as he leans back, naked and legs spread, against the bed, hand cupped in invitation under the soft swell of his balls. “Now, where were we? Specifically, where were _you?”_

 

“Nah,” Ed shakes his head, eyes bright with mischief and burning desire. “I’m ready for the big number, fucking pyrotechnics, show me what you’ve got sound man.”

 

“Fucking solo artists,” Patrick rolls his eyes with a smirk. _He wants this, he wants this so fucking badly, wants to hear those notes you can hit together as much as you do, wants skin and sweat and come_. “You need to learn to appreciate the art of team effort.”

 

He drags Ed in for a kiss, he’s soft, damp lips and a hot, hard cock against Patrick’s hip. He’s rough, warm hands and a body that shivers with need and kicks out heat like a fucking furnace, his hair glowing bright enough to burn, slicked in dark red curls around his ears, the back of his neck, “So, are you a front man, Ed?”

 

“What the fuck are you talking about now?” Ed ruts against him, hard cocks that are flushed with blood and need and wanton desire grinding hard and wanting against one another. Patrick slides a couple fingers into his mouth then grabs at Ed’s ass, flickers a fingertip once again over his hole, it’s smooth and delicate, there’s a flash of resistance as he presses in experimentally, just to the first knuckle. “O-oh… Right…”

 

_Watch him blush, he’s already flushed but it’s deeper, like sunrise and you did that, you fucking did that, press that finger in, see how his eyes widen and there’s that groan. It’s low, you could hit the note too but why when you can layer over him, a rich moan as his hips crash to yours like waves and your sounds melt and mingle like a fucking chorus._

 

“I’m pretty verse,” Patrick murmurs, finger curled against Ed’s prostate, a little gasp rapsing from his throat as Ed bites down on his collar bone.

 

“Y-yeah,” Ed stammers, breath hot and damp as a Chicago summer fluttering against his ear. “Me too. I mean… Whatever you… I don’t mind.”

 

“You’re the solo artist,” he ignores the irritated huff and presses that finger just a little more firmly into that tight little epicentre of tingling perfection. “How do you want your finale…”

 

“Seriously—fuck, Jesus Christ—I don’t… Just pick one, I don’t fucking _care_ ,” he’s thrusting hard against the crease of Patrick’s groin, the scrape of velvet soft skin leaving Patrick aching, needing, burning from the inside out.

 

“Fuck me,” he gasps. “Holy shit just… Yeah, just fuck me.”

 

There’s a moment of silence, a ghost of cool air over his skin as Ed rolls to fumble in his bag. _Grab the phone and scroll to the camera, set it up and snap a quick shot—hard cock flushed pink wrapped in milk-pale fingers, thumb just below that smudge of a birthmark by the head—back on the nightstand._ “How would you feel about me taking some pictures—nothing incriminating and none of your face—just… reminders of the show?”

 

“Fucking souvenir programme? Doesn’t bother me…” Ed grins as the lube cap clicks and his fingers are coated in slick. He presses one inside, then two and Patrick squirms, breathes deep and—propped on an elbow—angles the camera and _click_. He collapses back for a moment, can’t resist the urge to look. His cock curves up and away to the top left corner of the screen, his ass stretched around two pale fingers, a tattooed forearm sliding out of view in the bottom right. _Perfect_.

 

He leans back and breathes out another moan as Ed finds that spot, feathers his fingers against it like he’s playing something sweet and pretty under Patrick’s vocals. He adds a third, presses in deep, down and down and Patrick is singing for him, smiling as Ed’s groan rolls under his. _No—this. This is the fucking prettiest. This isn’t like fucking a bassist, bassists are all flashy rhythm but vocalists, they ponder, they think, they push and show off and—holy fucking shit right there._

 

“Right there,” he whines, legs tight around Ed’s thighs. “Shit just… _Fuck_ …”

 

“Yeah, there we go,” Ed’s grinning, laughing and it mingles with his groan. “That’s it, yeah?”

 

“Oh god,” Patrick is writhing and twisting, hands that don’t know what to do claw at the comforter, drag at patterned skin until there are red welts threaded amongst blue and yellow, black and green. “Please, just…”

 

“You want me to fuck you, don’t you?” Ed’s purring like that fucking lion on his chest, like he knows a secret, like he’s in charge. 

 

Patrick grins, “Get their eyes on you. Get them wanting, Get them needing. Blow them the fuck away.”

 

“Sold out arenas,” Ed breathes, fingers pulled out soft, slow, and replaced with the head of a latex-covered cock. His lips brush Patrick’s feather soft, light as air and hot as coals. “I can deliver, mate.”

 

_Curl your hand around the back of his neck, arch your back and push up your hips, he’s right there—right fucking there—like promises, like wants, like need and heated desire. Fuck me, Ed, just fuck me, give me my big number._

 

He rolls to his knees and backs up onto Ed’s lap, feels him line up against the tight pucker between his cheeks and, with a deep breath sucked in, he lowers himself down onto Ed’s cock. There’s a low hum as Ed pushes in, the oxygen leaving his body and replaced with the solid heat of a hard cock. He clenches, tense and tight around the invasion, feels Ed’s hand pressed flat to his chest, makes sure to breathe from his diaphragm like all good singers.

 

“You feel fucking _amazing_ ,” Ed whispers, breath and words a warm suggestion against the shell of Patrick’s ear, teeth bright and sharp against the lobe. _Grab his hand and slide it around your cock, the pale against the flushed pink pillar of it leaking, aching, throbbing. Reach for the camera and—click—yeah. That looks good._

 

“Just… Gimme a second…” He trails off, reaches forward to brace his hands against the headboard. Ed’s rubbing feather-soft circles on the small of his back with his thumb, lips light against the freckled skin of his shoulder and breath warm and soft against his neck. _There’s a throbbing burn where his body joins yours, didn’t realise he was that fucking big. Breathe deep, relax, feels… Feels good…_ “Okay… Yeah… All good…”

 

Knuckles flex white against the headboard as Ed gives an experimental roll of his hips, “You’re sure you’re okay, mate?”

 

“Mmhmm,” he hums, eyes lightly closed as he fumbles for the phone again, reaches back and down between his spread knees and click, click, click. The phone is tossed back onto the nightstand, there’ll be time to check them later, for now… “Oh god… _Fuck yeah_ …”

 

“Yeah?” Rough hands grab his wrists, slide down over his arms, his ribs and waist and pull him back, the thick cock inside him drags back like a perfectly held note, there’s a pause, a beat or two where he’s empty but for the head just breaching him. Hands slide down the headboard until his face is pressed to the pillows, Ed’s hands tight against his hips. _Moan low and sweet, moan for him, let him hear what he’s doing, his sigh is a harmony, weaves and threads with your noises as he pushes back in. He’s got you sliding up through your scales, bright and clear for him as he hits your spot. Breathe from the bottom, relax your shoulders, hard to sing a clear note when your ass is in the air…_

 

The thrusts are deep and slow, Ed bottoms out on each drive in, hitches up a knee against Patrick’s hip for leverage, “Fucking hell you’re so fucking tight, never felt an arse like it, _fuck_ you’re… Oh god…”

 

“Are you gonna come?” Patrick calls back over his shoulder anxiously, stilling his hips with a stutter of staccato movement.

 

“Oh fuck,” Ed groans, hips faltering to a halt, cock deep inside. “Yeah… Yeah I think so…”

 

“No,” he twists away, body screaming out at the lack of sensation as he thumps his ass onto the mattress. “All fours, _now_.”

 

There’s a pause for a moment of fumbling and scrabbling, a second where he can’t find the lube, a muttered curse as he squeezes it onto his fingers and then he’s teasing, soft and gentle at the tightness of Ed’s ass. _Reach across for the camera, line up the shot, the length of your cock against his pale-as-cream ass, fingers working inside of him—click—beautiful baby, just fucking beautiful. We’re both used to the cameras, used to the flash and the glare of artificial light against pale skin, smiling faces, brooding glares and everything in between. This is different, this is private places and hidden touch, this is a one night only intimate acoustic performance for a select audience._

 

He’s three fingers deep, could probably work in a fourth but doesn’t have the patience, doesn’t have much of anything left any more. He’s been desperate to come since Ed sunk that talented mouth down over his dick and now… He’s throbbing hard, cock jumping under his hand as he rolls on a condom and adds another coat of slick. He lines up, hands on smooth, pale hips, eyes drifting over arms patterned like picture books and leans down, sucks a hard red mark to an unmarred shoulder blade. 

 

_Looks pretty, like bloodied snow, press inside of him, just an inch, just enough to hear that pretty little moan that twists like curls of smoke with yours. The lights are dipped, it’s that moment of roaring anticipation, the step on stage, the rush of oxygen raked into lungs and that note, that first soaring note that pierces it all like soap bubbles and it’s a rush, a flood, a tidal wave of energy and burning power. Grab again for the camera—hands are trembling—a video this time, a hard, pink cock sinking into a soft, pink ass soundtracked by nothing but a guttural groan and a high, thin whine. Incredible._

 

“Fuck yeah,” Ed moans into folded arms. Patrick runs a hand down his sweat-slick back, trails fingers through soft red hair before grasping his hips once more.

 

“Can I…?” The question hangs over them for half a beat.

 

“Fuck me or I’m going to pin you down and ride you like Shergar.”

 

“Sher-”

 

“He was a fucking racehorse, get on with it!” _He thinks he’s in charge and that’s sort of cute, a little endearing. Roll your hips against him, slow and easy, make him want you, make him moan and beg and plead. He thinks this is the encore, thinks this is the lights and sounds and booming notes of the big finale but he’s wrong. This is the song before, the build up, the anticipation, the- Fuck he needs to stop clenching like that…_

 

Patrick’s thrusting, deep, hard, fast before he really realises what he’s doing, before he can fully savour the tight, smooth heat around his cock. He reaches down and flicks the condom from Ed’s cock, palm slicking against hot, hard flesh and satin smooth skin, thumb rolling over the head on each downward stroke. Ed has the measure of him, tightening around him hard on each push in until it’s Patrick that’s sweating, Patrick that’s begging, pleading, wanting, desperate for something he can’t articulate, “Oh jesus… Fuck… Oh god yes, fuck that’s… That’s… _Fuck_ yeah.”

 

Three more hard strokes— _hard, harder, hardest_ — and Ed’s taut as guitar strings beneath him, cock twitching in Patrick’s hand as he comes with a beautiful, melodic moan that finds a route straight to Patrick’s dick. _Haul him up against you, quick now before it’s too much, the lights are still bright and the crowd is still roaring like animals, like fight nights and shitty clubs and smoky basement bars. Because it doesn’t matter—dive bar or stadium—as long there’s feedback, as long as there’s sweat and skin and soaring shouts of words everyone adores. This is why fucking is like music, this is why…_

 

The thoughts are gone, lost, nothing more than crackling, screeching feedback that hums in his ears as he starts to come, feels it pounding through him like a rolling kick drum, like the thrumming of a bass, the clever quickness of a well executed guitar solo. His pleasured cry is a high note, the final moments of _Saturday_ , melismatic and raw as he thrusts his hips weakly then they’re slipping falling, grunting with breath knocked from lungs as they hit the mattress, hit each other, a sweaty mess of limbs and skin.

 

There’s quiet in the room, the roar of blood in his ears like the roar of the crowds on the post-show high. Everything tingles, everything feels weak and soft and a little hazy at the edges like fever dreams.

 

“Wow,” Ed groans softly into the pillow. “Fucking _hell_.”

 

“Right?” Patrick agrees lazily. His eyes drift to his phone. “Hey, do you mind if I just…?”

 

“No,” Ed stretches out lazily. “Be my guest.”

 

He reaches for the phone and heads to the bathroom, condom pulled from his softening cock and tied off, tossed into the trash can as he closes the door. The lock clicks into place and he turns on the shower, let’s the water pound down into the tub below before raising the phone to his ear.

 

“Did you enjoy that?” He murmurs, the audience—the real audience—takes a deep, shuddering breath on the other end of the line.

 

“Fuck, ‘Trick,” Pete groans, voice hoarse and strained. “Yeah… Yeah. Amazing.”

 

“I got some pictures, baby,” he purrs, loves the obscene little whimper he gets in response. “You want me to send them?”

 

“You know I do,” Pete’s voice is a low groan. “I didn’t come yet… I thought maybe… I can be there in thirty minutes. D’you think he’d… you could suck my cock while he watches…?”

 

“Ed,” Patrick opens the door, phone still pressed to his ear. “Pete wants to know how you feel about him coming over?”

 

“Now?” Ed glances up from his own phone with a smirk, Patrick doesn’t miss the twitch of his soft cock between his legs and grins broadly. “I… Yeah, why not?”

 

“Okay baby, get here as soon as you can,” Patrick purrs into the receiver. “Love you.”

 

“I did wonder about Pete,” Ed doesn’t object as Patrick slides onto the bed next to him, two sets of hands tangled in one another’s hair, two differing shades of red a delicate contrast. “I just thought you were a bit of an arsehole…”

 

“We’re just very… _Accommodating_ ,” Patrick grins crookedly, hand reaching absently for Ed’s spent dick. “We’ve got thirty minutes.”

 

“Oh, I think we can put those to good use.”

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments would be like belated birthday gifts... Come on, it was kinda hot, wasn't it? Admit it! I'm naming this ship Sheerump.


End file.
